


Blind Date

by Rosie_Dayze



Category: Bright (2017)
Genre: Blind Date, Shyness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-25 08:56:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16194260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Dayze/pseuds/Rosie_Dayze
Summary: Reader is late for a blind date with Nick. Edited and updated.





	1. Chapter 1

You’re late. You hate being late. But between work, transportation, and the weather you walk into the restaurant fifteen minutes late with snow soaked clothes. For a full twenty-five seconds you stand on the welcome mat, making a puddle as you scan the tables. You see a family of five, clustered around a round circle of darkwood. The mother, at least you assume it's the mother, is dishing out chicken korma and crab masala between three round faced children. The father tries to help the youngest of the brood tear apart pieces of naan. At another table two coiffed and manicured women bend their heads close and whisper before their fingers lace. An older woman, face wrinkled with age, sips at what you assume is a mango lassi. You see all of this and more. 

What you don't see, is your date. 

Admittedly you don’t know what your date looks like, but June--your well meaning best buddy and co-worker--promises that you will know him when you see him. Whatever that was supposed to mean. June has a notoriously weird sense of humor and, ever since getting married, an even more notorious desire to see everyone paired up in matrimonial bliss. You are the current focus of well meaning, if somewhat overwhelming, attentions. 

"What are you still doing here?" she demanded of you less than an hour ago. "You should have left forever ago! You are going to be late for your date with Nick."

You'd looked at the pile of papers still cluttering your usually organized desk. "June, I don't think I can go. I still have to-"

"Oh no. No, no no." With a sweep of her arms she'd gathered up everything you'd been working on. "I can finish this. You need to get home."

"What about Stephanie?" You'd asked, naming June's wife.

"Steph-" June always says the name like it's the best word ever "-shipped out this morning for six months."

The smile had stayed fixed on June's face, but it was all to easy to see that it didn't reach her eyes. When June smiled, really smiled, her eyes crinkled. Her perfectly brown skin remained utterly smooth even as her teeth flashed. You'd reached out reflexively and gripped her hand in silent solidarity. Her fingers had gripped back.

"Maybe we should go to dinner," You offered.

Her smile brightened. "Oh no. Nope. Nooo. You have to go on this date. Nick is..." Her hand swept through the air in little circles as she tried to find the right words. "He's perfect for you."

She'd said it like she'd meant it. And so, out of friendship you'd hauled yourself halfway across the city to Curry Favor, one of your top five favorite restaurants. Your supposedly perfect date, however, is not immediately known.

You bite your lip and look down at your phone. A few swipes of your thumb and you bring up your most recent text messages between you and your as yet unseen date. Again you are surprised by how sweet he seems.

_Hey Nick, I’m so sorry. I’m running late. I will be there, I promise._

He responded, less than fifteen minutes ago. _Take your time. I’ll be here._

Simple, sure. But you know it could have gone so, so much worse. This is not the first first-date you’ve gone on in the past six months. It's not even the tenth. You have gained a perspective for just how terrible some people can be. In the four days that you and Nick have exchanged infrequent messages he’s never sent you anything creepy, an unwanted dick pic, or made hints that sex was somehow the only good way the night could end. In fact he's been almost painfully polite.

You are fully prepared for him to turn out to be a charming serial killer.

Or, you think, scanning the restaurant again, maybe he got fed up with waiting. You wonder if he’s left, or if he’s in the bathroom, or if he took one look at you and your soggy outfit and decided to hide under a table.

You did that once, but not because of some snow.

With a deep breath you sweep your fingers over your phone screen and send a message.

_Hey, I’m here. Are you?_

A short clip of music comes from a table to your left. Orcish, you think. It has that heavy, speed-drumming paired with guttural vocals. You haven’t spoken orcish since college--you took two semesters to fulfill a language requirement--but you think the song is about valiant soldiers returning home.

A hand, thick fingered and mottled, reaches for a phone. Your eyes zero in on broad, well muscles shoulders fitted inside a blue flannel shirt. Beige and blue skin continues up the back of a smooth, bald head. You see his hand as he opens the message. You forget to breathe as he opens the message. The pattern of your own words dance across the screen. Are you kidding yourself or is there a line of sudden tension running through his body. He sits up straighter, one had grabbing the back of his chair as he turns. Your eyes meet.

You try to take in all of his features at once. His lips, a perfect bow with a deep v, sit beneath a broad nose. Both are a delicate, leaden blue. The tips of his ears curve into short, sharp points. There are two beige patches on either side of his cheeks. You aren't sure if the pattern makes him look soft or ferocious or a little bit of both. It's his eyes, however, that transfix you. At first they look sunspot yellow, but then you seen a bright orange nimbus encircling the iris. It’s as if some careful god has taken the heart of a fire and planted it in his gaze. They go bright as a hesitant smile settles on his lips.

It’s shyness that you see as he stands up. His hands go to his sides, swinging forward an inch and then back, as if he can’t decide where to settled them. He says your name, but you barely hear it. All that matters is the hopeful warmth that seems to permeate the air around him.

“Nick?” you ask, remembering, finally, to take a breath. 

“I...yeah.” He looks to one side and then the other. His shoulders hunch. “Were you expecting someth-someone else?”

The words he doesn't use pull at your heart. You shake your head, not sure what to say. Everything that comes into your head feels like the wrong thing to say, or at least unhelpful. He infers a lot from your silence.

“You weren’t expecting an orc,” he finally says. The light in his eyes dims.

You weren’t, that much is true, but you are in no way disappointed. It's not that you are one of those weird people who thinks screwing around with orcs because it's kinky. You don't think telling him that is going to help either of you. You take a step forward. And offer your hand.

“Expecting? No. But I’ve always been a fan of surprises.”

His smile is immediate and so heavy with relief that you feel your heart squeeze inside your chest.

“I haven’t ordered. I didn’t know what you like and didn’t wanna assume.”

You take your seat across from him. “That is, quite possibly, the sweetest thing I have ever heard.”


	2. Like It Was Meant to Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dating, flirting, and getting walked home. This chapter is dedicated to notaliteraltoad for being an especially nice human being.

The condensation on your glass is turning into water droplets. They hang on the brim before running down the stem in slow, lethargic rivers. Nick has been looking at the menu for ten minutes. You are lucky enough to have the menu by heart and have spent the time looking at him. 

He's handsome. And not just 'for an orc'. He's just plain cute. The broadness of his shoulders tests the limits of his flannel shirt and the way his fingers dance from one side of the menu to the other make you wonder if he's nervous, or just doing his best to interpret unfamiliar territory. 

“Tikka....tikka,” he mutters under his breath. “Curry...” 

It's probably the tenth time you've heard him say random words from the menu. 

“You don't know what any of this is, do you?” you finally ask. You feel a twinge of guilt. You know that orcs have different dietary needs than humans, but you honestly don't know what they are. If you'd known who your date was going to be, you might have done some research. 

He looks up, eyes wide. They are the most striking shade of orange with just a hint of red. Like sunsets. There is so much warmth there. Then his shoulders jut near his ears and he seems to turtle into himself. 

“No,” he says. “I don't. I've never been...here.” 

You chew on your lip and mull over your choices. Apologize, which is pretty much your knee jerk reaction to any situation. Or tease him. Which you don't think will go over very well for either of you. Luckily for you both, there is a third option. 

“Would you like help?” 

He almost sags with relief. “Yes, please.” 

After trying to talk across the table you give up and slide around to the seat next to him. His knee brushes yours as you drag your finger down the menu, explaining what you know about each item. You barely remember what you say, since all you can think about is the feel of him as he leans in to listen. An unexpected, but not unwanted, tingle starts low in your belly. He doesn't try to touch. Instead his hands remain folded anxiously between his knees. 

“Are you nervous?” you ask. 

“Hmm? Oh, no. No. I'm fine I just-” He cuts off as he sees the look you give him. “I don't...date.” 

“Like...recently? Or....” 

“This is my first one.” His eyes stay riveted on the menu, as if he suddenly finds the laminated letter illumination utterly fascinating. 

“Ever.” You know the clarification is unnecessary, but you can't seem to help yourself. 

He continues looking at the menu like he will find the secrets to the universe written somewhere between the palak paneer and the vegi korma. To be fair, the paneer is pretty divine. Tension radiates off of him and you find you aren't sure what to say.

“I'm sorry. Maybe I should go.” He shifts his chair back. Before you can think your hand grips the sleeve of his shirt. The flannel is soft beneath your fingers. He goes still. There is six inches of space between you, and for all that it feels like a chasm. 

“Listen, I've been on like...thirty pretty terrible first dates in the past few months and so far this is going really well.” 

His head snaps around. Your eyes lock. “Really?” 

“The last person I went out with decided to spend the first forty minutes talking about their mother and how perfect she was.” 

Nick's nose wrinkle. “That seems...excessive.” He settles back into his seat next to you. His shoulder brushes yours. 

“Oh, it was,” you promise. "I think I know more about Mrs. Rebecca Peterson than I know about my own mother." 

“I don't think I could talk about my mom for forty minutes.” He thinks about it. “I'm not sure I could talk about anything for forty minutes.” 

You laugh, and the light returns to his eyes. They are stunningly expressive. He moves and you realize that you are still holding onto his sleeve. Gently, you let it go. 

“Are you ready to order?” That's what you say, but what you are really asking is if he wants to continue the date. His eyes, those incredible firelit eyes, fix on yours. 

“You said that all the dishes come out together, right? Like...family style?” he asks. 

“Yeah.”

“How about you order for both of us?” He shifts his shoulders and his hand brushes against yours. A spark of heat fills your belly. 

"Are you sure?" you ask. "I can be a little greedy when it comes to this place." 

"I'd be disappointed if you weren't."

“Best date ever.” 

And it is. After ordering more than your weight in food, and watching as he tries everything that isn't beef, you talk for what feels like hours and minutes all at once. You cover all the usual first date topics; friends, family, and work. You talk about favorites, and, when all those are exhausted, you move on to dreams. 

“All I ever wanted to be is a cop,” he says as you split the last bits of dessert. “From the time I was a kid. It's been my one and only goal.” He sits back and with a contented smile that has nothing to do with the jamun. “It's the best thing ever.” 

“I don't know that I could do it.” You shake your head. “I mean, I studied it in college, along with like, five thousand other things. But I don't know that I could carry around a gun and try to figure out who is right and who isn't and all the inbetweens.” 

He shakes his head and sits forward. His arms fold over the edge of the table. Again you are struck by the bulk of him. He leans across the table, his eyes fixed on yours. There is an excitement dancing over his features as he explains. “It's not about that. The right and wrong. It's just about doing the best you can do.” 

There is something heavy in his words that doesn't match the feeling in his eyes and you can't figure out why. 

“I feel like that's you all over,” you say. Easily you push away your empty plate. “Trying to do your best.” 

He hunches his shoulders shyly. “Isn't everyone?” 

You find your hand wrapping over his. There is so much warmth there. He is utterly gentle as he turns his palm over to press against yours. “No, Nick, not everyone. Lots of people, I'm sure, are but not everyone.” 

The pair of you split the check and, rather than go home, start to walk down the not quite snowy streets. While it was cold enough to snow in LA, it wasn't cold enough to stick. It almost never is. His hand laces with yours like it was always meant to be there. His gait is slow and easy, and you find your steps matching easily with his. 

You aren't sure if either of you really pick a direction, you just start walking. 

“I think everyone is trying their best,” he says after a few minutes of comfortable silence. “I just don't think we all agree on what best means.” 

“Oh?” 

His fingers twitch against your wrist nervously. It takes him a moment to answer, but when he does it's blunt, honest. “For some people, doing their best means going to the places in this world where things are the worst and trying to fix them. Don't get me wrong, that's really important. But for other people, doing their best means that they aren't yelling at the people who annoy them.” 

“You say that last part like you know.” 

He smirks. “My partner likes to yell a lot. It's how he relieves stress.” 

You laugh and your arms swing as the two of you stroll. It's never been this easy before. You've always hesitated before holding hands with someone, like it's some big step that you could never take back. But here, with Nick, it's like it was always supposed to happen. 

“How do you relieve stress?” you ask, realizing a second late that it sounds like a bad pick-up line. You quickly rephrase. “I mean, what do you do for fun?”

“Oh, uhm.” He shrugs and looks down the nearly empty street. “I mean...I don't know.” When you don't immediately respond, he continues. “I spent years trying to get on the force. Being the first orc to get a badge wasn't easy.” 

“That feels like an understatement.” 

“I had to work hard. Really hard. They have all these tests and trials. Some of them felt like they were put there just to make sure I didn't make it.” He says it without anger, which is a surprise. You wonder if you'd be angry in the same situation. 

“But you made it,” you say, bumping your shoulder to his. “You're a cop.”

“Yeah,” he says with reverence. “I did. But I didn't really learn how to not get stressed out.” He looks up suddenly. “I garden.” 

“What, really?” 

“Yeah. I do my own composting and everything. I like to grow things.” 

You smirk. It sounds very not-orcish. Or maybe all orcs like growing things. Honestly, school never really taught you much about them other than the facts that they sided with the dark lord and aren't very fast. Now that you are thinking about it, that feels like a bit of an oversight. 

“I'd like to see your garden.” 

"Oh! Okay. I mean, it's a thirty minute ride but we could-" 

You stop him with a touch to his arm. "I meant next date. Or maybe the one after that."

“Really?” he asks, his steps slowing. “You'd like to see me again?” 

“Yes,” you answer honestly. Your hand tightens ever so slightly on his. “Do you want to see me?”

“Oh yes.” 

The pair of you lapse into another, longer silence, but it doesn't have the awkward weight that it might have had. The presence of Nick at your side feels easy, comfortable. “I think I know why June set you up with me,” you say after a while. “You have optimism.” 

“Is it optimistic to hope for a... a goodnight kiss?” he asks as you come to a stop in front of your apartment.

Your heart speeds up in your chest. “You want to kiss me?” 

He shuffles in place. “I..I mean. If you don't want to, that's fine. I just...it's only...Ward said that if you have a good date then you'll know because of the kiss and I just-” He cuts off. “I'm not great at telling when someone is playing a joke. Human jokes are different from orc ones.” 

You tilt your head to the side. “How do orcs joke?” 

His face is utterly deadpan when he says, “Weapons are usually involved.” 

It take you a full ten seconds to realize he's just made a joke. When you laugh he joins you. His laughter is a little loud, and a little awkward, but it's honest all the same. The moment the last chuckle eases from his lips you fasten your mouth to his. 

He goes absolutely still against you, like marble. The speckled blue lips are warm and soft. Then his hand slides around your back. Fingers tremble against your skin as his lips start to move. Slowly, deliberately he tilts his head, pressing the tip of his tongue to yours. A surge of heat sweeps through you and your body leans a little harder to his. Your hand slides over the wealth of shoulders you've been eyeing all night. The way they bunch and shift as he eases you even closer is hypnotic. 

Solid. That's the first word that comes to mind. Nick Jakoby is absolutely solid. The heat of him radiates through you as your kiss turns from gentle to hungry. It's all to easy to imagine him scooping you up and carrying you up the three flights of stairs that separate you from your bed. 

He doesn't. 

You are both disappointed and intrigued. 

His forehead presses to yours and you can feel his breath across your lips. “I had...I had a really great time tonight.” His words are breathless, rough. 

Yours aren't any better when you respond. “Does it have to end?” 

He makes a sound, nearly a growl. The fingers on your back flex with desire. His hips arch towards you and you are already forming the words to invite him up when his phone goes off.

It's not orcish music this time. It's a high, shrill sound that cuts through the moment with all the precision of a blade. 

You step back, startled. Apology already fills his features as he looks at the screen. 

“That's work,” he explains. 

For a brief breath of a second you feel disappointed, but then you remember the look in his eyes as he talked about being a cop. Instead you put your hand to his cheek and place your lips very lightly to his once more. 

“Go. Be a good cop.” Your eyes are filled with playfulness. “And then maybe you can come be bad with me.”

He growls again. His body presses hard against yours and you feel everything that the clothes he wears tries to hide. 

“I'll...I'll call you.” 

When he turns away you watch him go. You feel a sudden shock of worry about him going off to do whatever it is that work is calling him in for. 

“You better call me, Nick Jakoby,” you whisper to yourself.


End file.
